Ye Zai woke up the next day walked out of the house and began to climb to the top of the mountain he that sat down and pondered about what the system had told him the other day. "I am destined to destroy and transcend fiction what dose that even mean and I'm destined to kill my creator called the author huh?"Ye Zai was in a state of confusion.
Now for some mor about the verse and it's backstory.
the beginning, before there was name or number, there was only the Page.
The Page was vast and endless, stretching beyond stars, beyond thought, beyond even the stories that stories could dream of. Upon this endless canvas, there existed an Author a being whose pen could weave worlds, whose breath could birth realities, whose heartbeat resonated through the very fabric of existence.
But the Author was not alone, nor singular in the way a stone is singular. Every time the Author's thoughts brushed the Page, they did not merely create stories they created reflections of themselves. Infinite Authors, infinite reflections, each writing, each dreaming, each being the Author, and yet, all these countless faces were truly One. Not separate minds, not scattered souls, but one boundless consciousness wearing infinite masks.
Within the Author's greatest creation the Verse these echoes descended, layered like veils across the worlds they birthed. Each Author-Reflection lived within the Verse, scripting events, building realms, nurturing destinies. They existed as gods within their stories, hidden architects whose hands shaped the fates of stars, of people, of all things. Yet, outside the story outside even the sky that held all skies there was the True Author: the real one, unseen, untouched, writing even the reflections themselves.
It was not a contradiction, nor a paradox. It was nature the way oceans have waves, each different, yet all part of one vast sea.
Thus the Verse was born: infinite in its stories, infinite in its gods, infinite in its Authors and yet utterly singular.
It was during this endless blossoming of creation, when the quills still danced and the Pages still unfolded, that the foundation for something even greater something unnamed began to stir in the spaces between words and thought.
But that is a tale for later.
From the first breath of the Verse, the Author who dwelled within it one of the infinite reflections of the True Author began his endless work.
He did not merely create stories; he rewrote them, reshaped them, renewed them, over and over again, as though he were tending a living garden that stretched beyond all imagining. Since the first dawn, he had been at work a silent architect, weaving worlds within worlds, verses within verses.
With each stroke of his unseen hand, a new verse was born within the Verse. And within that verse, countless other verses bloomed some no larger than a whisper, some vast enough to drown a thousand infinities. These verses birthed omniverses, which in turn gave rise to hyperverses, which cradled complex multiverses, which spilled into countless universes and infinite worlds.
And within each of those worlds, there were living beings grand, small, brilliant, unseen each carrying within the cells of their bodies entire universes, folded like secret songs within their blood and breath. Within those hidden universes lay yet more verses, more worlds, more endless stories an infinite, endless reflection spiraling deeper and deeper without end.
And so it was and so it is still that the Author within the Verse tends this endless tapestry. Each thread he touches splits into countless others. Each world he reshapes births a thousand new skies. And each breath he draws carries the weight of endless lives, all unaware that their dreams, their battles, their love, their sorrow, are but the ripples from the hand of one who has been writing since before even the concept of "before" existed.
The Author within the Verse has no beginning. His work has no end. His pen does not merely write upon pages; it births the pages themselves, the ink, the quill, the hand, the idea of writing itself.
He is a story that writes stories.
And somewhere, within the silence between heartbeats of the endless Verse, something was stirring something that would one day awaken.
But for now, the Author wrote on, dreaming an infinite dream that never ended.
Now back to Ye Zai.Ye Zai decided to continue to cultivate to get his mind and off things and cultivate he did for 5 years.